to an old Roman bridge spanning the small stream flowing through
the village. In this half-hour I get a good general knowledge of
the location of the town, its outline, its magnificent ruins, etc.
But I am not ready yet for sight-seeing. I prefer to listen to the
brook singing its happy way almost hidden among the pink oleanders
that grow in such profusion along its sides. The running water,
the perfume of the flowers, the flood of sunlight--these are like
balm to me after my awful yesterday. Certainly I shall be ready
early to study the ruins of this wonderful, mysterious, ancient
city.

Breakfast is ready. It consists of boiled eggs, bread, cheese, and
tea. Our table is the floor on which we slept. The male members of
the house-hold join us as we sit on mats around the simple meal.
Our host sends one of the men (a visitor to a Mohammedan home
never meets, and frequently never sees a woman) to bring a little
of his own bread. It does not look at all tempting to me, but I am
told that if I wish to secure my host's friendship I must eat of
it. This I do, but only once, and now he would be almost willing
to die for me should occasion arise.

After breakfast he shows me some antique coins that he had found,
and when my guide explains that I am an American schoolmaster, he
manifests exceedingly his delight. He almost pulls me out into his
little yard where he had been digging, and where he had unearthed
an inscribed cylindrical block of marble about two feet in
diameter and four feet in length. The lettering is in Greek. He
thinks it must tell of hidden treasure. And so it does to me, but
not of the kind for which he is looking. The inscription is
partially effaced, but I see enough to conclude that it was likely